


the shape you made me

by hissingmiseries



Category: EastEnders (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst and Feels, Chaptered, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, The Storyline He Deserves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-27
Updated: 2019-12-27
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:48:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21982438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hissingmiseries/pseuds/hissingmiseries
Summary: There are tons of bars in Lambeth: tons, all of them cheap and shit. Callum's not a drinker, never has been. They got hammered together once, after too much wine at dinner and too many nightcaps at home, and Callum was so grey the next day he could have easily been mistaken as one of the stiffs.Drinking, to Ben, is just—It's drinking.He doesn't need words to describe it. It justis.
Relationships: Ben Mitchell & Phil Mitchell, Callum "Halfway" Highway/Ben Mitchell
Comments: 21
Kudos: 110





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> the storyline we deserve but we're not going to get because they gave it linda instead (smh honestly what a waste). this sl means a hell of a lot to me and especially now ben and callum have broken up and all the shit is going down with the mitchells it would make Perfect Sense, plus the potential for parallels w/ phil???? god max would kill it too pls feed me ee :(
> 
> takes place around mid-february. ben/callum are mid-break up.
> 
>  **content:** this is a story about being Sad. like, it's angsty af. warnings include central theme of alcoholism; an episode of alcohol poisoning leading to hospitalisation. vomiting+withdrawal symptoms. ben/callum, callum/random guy. heavy references to parental abuse (r.e. phil, kathy & stella)/alcoholism/addiction and the effects on children. more to be added.

-

Callum hasn't spoken to Ben in a month. This is, in Ben's opinion, a very long time. It's not like he expected anything different—people say break-ups can be friendly but they can't really, can they? You can't just do that to someone and expect it all to be amicable. Especially when he— when he said all that stuff. Oh well.

It doesn't matter. It's a nice change from having to lie to him all the time.

(It actually feels pretty fucking shitty, but Ben is going to keep his own dignity, thank you very much.

Not that he actually has that much dignity—more on that later—but Callum can back the fuck up. Right now, he has bigger things to worry about.

Callum can wait. He doesn't care. Not really.)

Bigger things like. Well. His sister murdering her cheating fiancé.

That's pretty big.

It's not the first time they've covered up a murder. They're pretty much experts at it by now; mopping up the blood, getting the story straight. Ben's not quite sure what's weirder: the bizarre cohesion they had all fallen into, working together like some sort of machine, or the fact that this probably isn't the worst Christmas they've ever had. And everything is weird at the minute. That almost makes it feel normal.

Louise has to leave.

That's okay, Ben thinks. He'll miss her, of course he will. But she can't stay. Ben stayed, after Heather, and look where that got him. And like— _Ben_ is replaceable, he gets that. But Louise isn't. Not to Phil. It would kill him if anything happened to her.

"Hey," Ben says. "Do you wanna get a drink?"

Louise says, "Okay," and they get hammered and don't talk about how they've both lost the men they love, or how their dad is almost definitely going to have a breakdown, or how their hands are still shaking. There's a smudge of blood on Louise's finger, just below her engagement ring. She wipes it on her sleeve.

It's fucking ridiculous. All of it.

Even the Callum part of it, which is probably the one upside of this whole sorry mess because at least somebody gets out of it alive. It doesn't matter if Ben gets hurt, he's pretty used to this now—taking bullets for his dad, for his sister. Callum's not. This would have crushed him, more than anything Ben said that night in the street. 

It's for the best.

All of it is.

Ben gets hammered and goes home with someone he probably shouldn't go home with but it's Walford, and it's not like anybody with notice, or care.

He shows up to work on time the next day. He looks a bit dead, but not that dead. It's fine. It's life. The cancer's been cut out; Keanu's dead, Sharon is who knows where and Callum is safe.

Jay frowns at him. "Ben?"

Ben smiles, "Hungover," and throws a paper plane at him.

It's good. It's great. He still has Jay after all this, none the wiser. Lola's fine. Lexi's fine. 

It's fine. Ben is fine.

-

Ben is a little off the rails.

It's fine, he's not that bad. He was way worse after the Heather situation, when he was new to murder and new to rage. Back then he had Jay—young Jay, fresh-faced and just as angry—to keep him out of trouble, and now Jay's older and so is he, so he's gotta watch his own back.

He makes it to work; it makes it home. He picks Lexi up from school every other day like he's supposed to, ignores how empty the passenger seat feels. The air freshener dangling from the rear-view mirror was Callum's idea. It smells like pine.

He avoids the police. As much as he can, anyway.

Phil said, "take it you're moving back in, then", underpinned with _I don't think you should be on your own,_ which is what everyone is telling him. He eventually had to block Stuart's number—the death threats were getting boring.

Jay suggests he get a flat on the square, two bedrooms so Lexi can stay over. He knows it's a bad idea as soon as he's said it: Ben, alone, unhappily-single? Yikes. Big mess.

Anyway, he ends up staying in the Mitchell house, again; the guest room, seeing as his actual bedroom has been converted into a nursery for the baby. It's fine. It's nice. There's a painting of a flower on the wall. 

-

This blond guy is his first pick. He's not even fit, which is unlike Ben because he's usually picky, but he's alright. His name is Reggie or Ritchie or something and he buys Ben's drinks all night, and that's all he really cares about.

Nice enough lad. They're all nice enough lads.

Ben's got a lot of nice enough lads sitting in his inbox right now, asking him, _meet up 2nite?_

He deleted the app after things got serious with Callum, but hey, it's quick and easy.

Louise is due to leave early morning, on the first flight to Portugal with Lisa and Peggy. She had texted him, _ben u don't seem alright_ , so Ben sends a photo of himself and Lexi from Christmas morning. A "we'll be fine" type of thing.

She sends back two heart emojis, then, _i'm sorry things turned out like this._

_yeah,_ he replies. _so am i._

-

Ben's preferred bar this week is a hole in the wall in Soho. It's disgusting. It's thirty-five minutes out of Walford and there's a fucking deer head on the wall about the dartboard. It's the kind of place Tubbs would raise an eyebrow at and Tubbs doesn't exactly have high standards.

( _You were best mates, weren't you,_ he thinks to himself. _Makes sense._ )

It's pretty awful but the alcohol is cheap and he doesn't have to drink in Kathy's house, with her or Lola or Jay looking at him full of worry. And he's far enough out that he can usually sober up on the cab ride back. At least a little.

Speaking of Tubbs, Ben's puking in the gutter on a Monday night when he runs into him. They stare at each other for a second and then Ben, crouched over, hands on his knees like he's fifteen again, lifts his head to make eye contact. His mouth takes fucking rank. His stomach hurts.

Tubbs blinks at him, and sighs.

"I'll call you a cab," he says, pulls his phone out of his jacket.

Which is like, pretty nice, considering Ben kind of stabbed him in the back that one time. All for Callum. Bit of a fucking waste now, eh?

"Shitty fake," Tubbs says.

The back of the taxi smells like cigarette smoke and drunk people. Ben blinks up at him; he's hammered, Tubbs is three hazy faces floating around. It's been ages since he's been this gone; he never pulled shit like this on Callum. Callum was a sweet bloke who just wanted to text his boyfriend and watch sitcom reruns. These things are probably still true.

Past tense is a killer.

"Get off my wallet," Ben says.

Tubbs squints down at it. "Hang on—how many fakes do you need?" He counts three, four different IDs. 

"Never know when they come in handy," Ben says. 

_Ryan Black_ , says the driver's license. It's Ben's face, but not his name or his age or his birthday. Tubbs smirks. "Thought you'd gone straight."

Ben makes a face at him and swallows back a hurl. The vomit tastes like vodka.

"Cute," Tubbs grimaces. "What, lover boy's gone so you're back to your old ways?"

"Gimme back my wallet," Ben says, takes it from him clumsily. It's the new one Callum got him, brown leather. It feels soft beneath his fingers.

-

Phil answers the door. "What's going on?" He's blinking, rubbing his eyes but it's obvious he hasn't slept. He probably hasn't slept for days.

"Delivery," Tubbs deadpans. 

Ben mumbles softly against Tubbs' cheek. He's a short fucker—barely comes up to Tubbs' shoulder but his arm's wrapped up around Tubbs' neck to keep him standing. He's very, very drunk. He doesn't know how much Tubbs paid the cabbie but at least he didn't send him back to Kathy's; he couldn't let Lexi see him like this.

Phil blinks at him, then sighs. This long, disappointed thing. "Cheers, Tubbs. Owe you one."

It's just him, Phil and Denny in the Mitchell house now. It's never been this quiet.

They're sat at the table, Ben and Phil. Phil says, "You know, I reckoned this might've be the first time I've seen you properly care about this family since you came back."

Ben groans. His head is pounding. "The hell's that supposed to mean?"

Phil huffs, slides a spatula of eggs onto Ben's plate. The smell makes him nauseous. "Well, you were all ready to rip us off, weren't you—"

"I was ready to rip _you_ off," he points out. "Bit of a difference."

The kettle boils, sloshing in the corner. "What, proud of that, are you?"

Phil has that look on his face. _That_ one. Ben doesn't say anything, just looks down at his plate. The eggs are all mushy.

"Nah, thought not," Phil continues. He's all red again, tomato-coloured. He gets like this a lot nowadays. "You ain't got much to be proud of at the minute, honestly—"

Fuck. "Hang on," Ben snaps. "Your daughter's just caved her boyfriend's head in—"

"Alright, enough of that—"

"—and I'm getting the lecture?" 

He feels sixteen again. His dad's glaring at him like he's sixteen again, a walking shitshow. Phil opens his mouth but then closes it again, clearly deciding against it. It's too early. "She's my sister," Ben eventually says. "And she's a pain in the arse, but I _do_ care about her."

Phil sighs. "I'm here." Whatever supportive tone he's going for, it doesn't work. He's never been good at like, talking. Especially not to Ben. "You know that. And I can't— I can't fix things if you don't let me."

Ben looks down at his hands. His right knuckles are faintly purple, thanks to some guy's jaw. "There's nothing to fix."

Denny stumbles down the stairs in a borrowed t-shirt from Ben and sticking-up hair. "Hi," he says, gingerly.

"Honestly," Phil grumbles, reaching for the orange juice. "I thought you'd have climbed out a window and to your mum's by now."

"I thought about it," Denny says. "But it's a long way down."

Ben winces; this is how it all started for himself, isn't it? Parents splitting up, rows in the Vic. Having Phil Mitchell as a role model. "That's what drainpipes are for," he says, standing up and ruffling Denny's hair. "We'll teach you, one day."

-

Picture this: Walford, two-thousand-and-nineteen. Ben Mitchell, twenty-three years old, family man through and through. Finally has his dad smiling at him, which is an accomplishment in itself. Head over heels for a bloke who, fair enough, he's innocent, but that's not going to stop him, let's be honest.

And he loves him. And he loves him back.

They're kissing. It's dark out. Callum has stubble burn but he's pretty into it. They're in Ben's car—not one he owns, one from the car lot—and Callum drove, so Ben could have a beer.

Callum says, "You okay?" and his eyes are gleaming in the night.

"I'm okay," Ben counters, and leans in.

That was Ben Mitchell at his best. It's all downhill after that.

-

"Oi," Ben says, catching Dotty Cotton by her sleeve. She's in a denim jacket and smells like perfume. "You out tonight?"

"Nowhere good round here," she shrugs. "Albert'll be packed and it's ladies night at E20."

"That ain't an answer," Ben says.

Dotty peers at him; it's a goth day, her eyeshadow is extremely dark. "You wanna go out?"

Ben says, "If you're up for it, I'll go with you." He's very good at getting around the _it's-a-weekday_ thing. And the _you've-been-out-every-day-this-week_ thing. Nobody who's lived through Phil dares call him out for it.

Also, nobody gives a shit. It's important to remember that. Nobody gives a shit.

They get drunk in one of Ben's hideaway bars. One where he hasn't managed to get himself kicked out or beaten up or both.

Dotty does four shots and lets Ben take care of himself, just keep on knocking them down.

"What's going on, then?"

Ben blinks. "Huh?" He's slurring; neither of them are counting but this must be like, number twelve, shot-wise. And that's not counting the beer. 

Dotty raises an eyebrow. "This is normal for you? 'Cause you're pretty shit at it, if it is."

"Fuck off, Cotton."

"Never heard that one before."

She waits.

"It's just—" He pauses, narrowing his eyes at some point in the distance; an abandoned bottle, the light falling and shattering off of it. He has to be very, very careful. "Louise. Louise is gone, y'know, she's just— just gone with my niece. It's weird. Didn't think she'd actually go."

"Can you blame her?" Dotty frowns. "Her boyfriend's just up and legged it with their devil spawn. I'd move to Portugal an all."

Ben winces, screws up his face. Tries to forget the image of Keanu on the living room floor, missing half his head. He necks another shot; maybe that will get rid of it. "Then Callum fucked off too." Not entirely true, but, you know. He's so drunk. It's okay; Dotty's drunk too, she stopped with the shots but not the beer. "He told me he loved me and I didn't know what to say back."

Dotty sighs, sympathetic.

He shrugs. Keeps talking, because he's drunk and this is him now. "So he's with some new bloke and I'm here and I miss him so fucking much, Dot, but like, he doesn't text me back. Ever."

"That's shit, mate," Dotty says. Her phone screen lights up: 1:06 am.

"I miss him so much," Ben says, miserably. "I didn't want us to not be friends anymore, so I—but now we're not friends anymore, so what's the point?"

Dotty squints. "Did you kiss him?"

"What the fuck—"

"You did, didn't you?"

Ben drops his head. The silence stretches out, swallowed by the pulse of David Guetta or whoever it is over the sound system. "No," he eventually says, one long sound. "I should have done."

-

Dotty goes home with a girl with bright blue hair. She smiles at Ben and tells him she'll look after her and honestly, Ben doesn't hear a single word of it because he's so fucking gone, he can't really see shapes anymore.

"Hey," says a guy who's been looking at him. He's tall, dark hair, big blue eyes. A crooked, sunshine smile.

Ben's mostly over sunshine smiles but right now he's thinking _what if I'd said I love you back,_ so it is a pretty easy thing to be weak for.

-

"Saw Callum today, with that new bloke," Jay says, the next morning. They're in the cafe and Ben's necking black coffee like it's going out of fashion. "He looks alright, y'know."

He wishes it was okay. He wishes he could get it; moving on so quickly, especially after what he said to him. He wishes he could stay chill.

Ben Mitchell was never super chill, back in the day.

Ben is not super chill now.

"Looks happy, does he?" he asks, into the mug. His head is fucking _pounding_. 

Jay cocks his head and peers at him, in the way that only Jay can. Not many people look at Ben like that: like sunlight, peeking through clouds on a grimy day. "Dunno if I'd call it happy," he says, careful. "More just— settled. Chilled out." Then, quieter: "He lives in Lambeth, this bloke. They were talking about furniture shopping or sommat, so I guess—" He trails off, eyes wary.

Ben's very quietly seething. His knuckles are white around his mug. "Fascinating."

"Not bitter at all, are you," Jay remarks.

"Lambeth's a shithole," Ben says. "Crime rates are through the roof down there. Can't see Callum lasting five minutes."

Jay smirks, but in a sad way. "Could always talk to him." 

Ben grabs his coat. "Why would I," he says, standing up. "He sounds like he's doing just fine."

There are tons of bars in Lambeth: _tons_ , all of them cheap and shit. Callum's not a drinker, never has been. They got hammered together once, after too much wine at dinner and too many nightcaps at home, and Callum was so grey the next day he could have easily been mistaken as one of the stiffs.

Drinking, to Ben, is just—

It's drinking.

He doesn't need words to describe it. It just _is_.

They're all in the Vic that afternoon—Ben, Lola and Jay, the misfits—in the little circle booth by the small door. It's familiar, but wrong. Something is very obviously missing.

Callum's in the corner. No new boyfriend in sight, thank God; just Stuart, who turns a funny shade of red when he spots Ben. It kind of feels like Pride all over again, the imprint of Stuart's foot in Ben's ribs. Over and over until there was nothing left to burst.

Fucking Stuart. He did awful things to Callum. _For_ Callum, until Callum walked away.

Stuart doesn't walk away. You can say a lot of things about Stuart, but he doesn't walk away. Stuart stays put. You have to carve him out.

But then Callum walks over. Walks so gently, like he might sink through the floor.

"I'm not trying to avoid you," Callum says, quietly. His fingers are curled around the neck of his Stella bottle and his foot is tapping with nerves. "I know we ain't— _mates_ , but you never talk to me."

Ben is like, having a mini breakdown. Lola and Jay have snuck off to the bar and Ben wants nothing more than to neck whatever he can find. Vodka, mouthwash. Battery acid wouldn't be too bad, at this moment in time.

He's drinking a Thatchers. It's sweet and fizzes against his teeth. "Yeah," he says. "I know."

Callum looks—so _sad_. Jay was lying through his arse. "It's shit, Ben. I hate it."

Ben closes his eyes. "I'm sorry."

Callum makes this sound—startled, hurt. Like he didn't expect Ben to say anything, but he expected that even less. " _Ben._ "

"I know," Ben says, again. It's barely a whisper. "I know, Cal. But I can't do anything else."

-

Ben and Dotty are getting pretty good at going out together; it's becoming kind of a routine. It turns out Dotty has all these inner demons she has to deal with too, mostly in the shape of her dad and so she drinks just enough to become someone else, even if it's just for the night. 

Plus, watching her walk in stilettos is hilarious. Ben wheezes every time he sees it.

"You know," she says, at the bar, "your man's still in love with you."

Ben swallows a mouthful of vodka-and-Coke (ninety-percent vodka, ten-percent Coke) and tries not to cry. "I know," he says. There is no way around things like this.

"What, you don't—"

"I'm trying to rebuild my own narrative," Ben says, with a dramatic flourish. "As are you, Miss Cotton."

(Ben doesn't deserve it. His narrative is repetitive; he tried to change, and couldn't.

Now he is here, and he doesn't deserve Callum. If he has Callum things will fall apart. That is what happens.

Callum is a good thing. Callum is a very good thing.

Ben—

—is not that.)

"Fuck this place," Dotty says, swigging from her glass.

"What a fucking shithole," Ben says. "Middle of fucking London, cold as balls, nothing to do except waste our lives." He's a Mitchell; he's always been dramatic.

"And drink," says Dotty, cautiously. She's smarter than she looks. Not hard: she looks kind of like a River Island model. But she's Dotty Cotton, and she has half of Walford wrapped around her finger.

Ben smirks. "Not even good drink."

"Bet that's never stopped you," Dotty says, grinning, all teeth.

-

Callum calls (!!!) and Ben is very drunk so he picks up.

_Are you alright,_ Callum asks. He sounds worried, and quite sober.

Oh yeah. Most people aren't this hammered at one o'clock on a Thursday morning.

"I'm fine," Ben says. Ben is not at all sober, but he tries to steady his voice because Callum has always been a worrier. "Miss you."

There's a pause, then: "I miss you, too," in his soft, careful voice.

"I have to go," Ben says, heart swelling up, trying to climb out of his throat. He hangs up. 

The guy on the bed behind him has dark eyes and a wide, dangerous smile. He'll do for the night.

-

Ben takes Lexi for a walk in one of the big parks outside the borough. Mostly sober. It's like sightseeing or some shit, except that Lexi wants a McDonalds so they end up eating Happy Meals and pouring ketchup and barbeque sauce into the same paper cup.

"You were being really mean about Callum this morning," Lexi says, dangling her feet off the chair. She'd forced Ben to sit on the high stools, so he'd have to lift her up onto it. "Just because you aren't together anymore, it doesn't mean you have to be mean about him."

To be fair, Ben can't really remember what he was saying that morning. His head was still pretty foggy.

"I'm sure I wasn't being _that_ mean."

"You were," Lexi says, matter-of-fact. "I think he just wants to help you."

It's almost annoying, sometimes, just how precocious his daughter is. Where she gets her brains from, he doesn't know: neither he or Lola will be winning Mastermind any time soon.

Ben rolls his eyes and eats a handful of chips. "Well, maybe I don't want his help. How about that?"

"Okay," Lexi says. "Then that makes you a P-R-I-C-K."

"Er, language, madam!" he scowls, frowning; she doesn't even look abashed, and Ben's far too tired (read: hungover) to do any actual parenting. "Fine," he sighs. "Then that's me."

Lexi narrows her eyes. She's so much quicker than Ben will ever be. "Why did you break up with him, anyway?"

Ben shrugs, takes a bite out of his burger. Grimaces at the taste of gherkin. "We didn't work out."

"What does that mean?" she asks.

Good question. "We just—didn't work out. Nothing major, princess. Sometimes adults decide it's best to be apart."

"But you didn't both decide that," she points out, and _God._ Ben loves his daughter to the ends of the earth and back but sometimes he really just wants her to be like, less like _him_. "You decided that for Callum. He didn't get a say in it. That isn't very fair."

"Life's not fair, kid."

Lexi scrunches her face up in a way that is so like Ben it gives him shivers. "I'm not a _kid_ ," she says, indignant. Then: " _You're_ a kid. You won't talk to your boyfriend and now you're being mean about him."

"He's not my boyfriend," Ben says. Quick, automatic. He's been saying it a lot, recently. "If he was my boyfriend, things would be easier."

"Maybe if you're nicer to him, he'll take you back."

She has ketchup-barbeque-sauce smeared on the side of her mouth. Ben huffs, tired-eyed, and licks his thumb. "Yeah, okay," he says, wiping her cheek.

"Really?" Lexi sits up real fast. She's all wide, hopeful eyes. God.

"Probably not," Ben says. "But hey, you told me. So that's something you can feel good about."

It's his night to have Lexi at the Mitchell house so Ben offers to cook dinner for everyone, and he does. Mac and cheese, difficult to fuck up when you're tipsy (at least he thinks). He puts in extra butter, the way Callum likes it; does it on autopilot, which is dumb, because Ben doesn't even like it like that, and neither does Phil. He says he deals with enough grease at the Arches.

(Phil, who says things like, _Ben, you're being selfish_ and _I saw Callum's new fella today_ and—

Ben can't handle it, really.

He can't. He won't.)

He laughs when he burns it, because of course he fucking does; just tips his head back and feels his whole body shake. Of fucking _course_ Ben Mitchell would burn mac-and-fucking-cheese. Whether it's the booze or Callum, he doesn't know. He's almost past caring.

Lexi stares at him, from the doorway. She's got wide eyes. "Dad?"

"It's fine, darling," he says.

The smoke detector goes off and they all stumble around each other racing to wave a tea towel underneath it; eventually, Ben's on a chair and his eyes are watering and he feels like his head might explode with the beeping. Denny takes Lexi to set the table and when Ben steps down off the chair, Phil's suddenly grabbing by the collar and staring at him, staring into his eyes.

"Dad—" 

"Drunk at the dinner table," Phil says, and his fucking _voice_ ; god, it's seething. "For fuck's sake, Ben."

They eat dinner. Ben keeps his feet underneath his chair and they all talk about nothing, even Lexi is quiet. It's hard, because Ben just wants to ask how Callum is, if anyone's seen him, if he's happy; wants to put a plaster over Callum's stupid scratched-up heart and kiss it better. Most of all he wants to speak about nothing and drink, but he manages it. At least for the hour.

-

His bedroom door opens in the middle of the night. He's not, like, _drunk_ drunk. He's curled up in a lump, pillow pushed down over his head, hands tangled up in the duvet. He wants to sink into the mattress like something out of Nightmare on Elm Street but then the light from the hallway floods in, into his eyes.

Ben lifts his head and blinks at—Phil. His eyes hurt. "Dad?"

"Checking you're still alive," a gruff voice croaks back, thick with sleep. 

Ugh. His head thuds back down onto the pillow. "Bit dramatic."

"Saw Callum in the Vic, before I came home," Phil says, walking in and shutting the door behind him. The moonlight is soft across his face, across the carpeted floor. "He must have been as pissed as you. He really let me have it."

Even though the haze Ben can feel the alarm bells go off. "You didn't do owt, did you?"

"Don't worry, he's still in working order." Phil is still a violent man—always will be—but even Ben has to admit, he's mellowed since his drinking days. Back when he'd come in and drink the cabinets dry, rearrange Ben's face because he felt like it. "I were quite impressed, to be honest. Didn't think he had it in him."

"What was he raging about?" Ben asks.

Phil folds his arms. He's in his Delboy dressing gown, the one Sharon bought him. "Said it were my fault you're drinking so much." Then, harsher: "Everyone can see it, Ben. You're a joke."

"For God's sake," he huffs, pulls the duvet over his head. "Couldn't this wait till morning?"

There's a beat of silence, but then Ben hears footsteps approaching the bed and _ugh ,_ this is not what his hangover needs. "He ain't mad at you," Phil says. "He misses you."

"I'd rather he hated me," Ben says, quiet. Callum's stayed over in this room before and the mark of him is everywhere, everywhere he looks: the long shape of him on the left side, the tub of hair gel on the bedside table, the way he'd curl into Ben in the night and hold him. Tentative, like a puppy nosing at you, or something. Just careful.

There's a weight at the end of the bed. Phil peers at him, somewhere between unimpressed and unsure. 

Ben sits up. "He's moved on," he says. More to himself than to Phil. "He's got that bloke and—give it a while, he'll have forgotten all about me."

"What, you think it's that easy, do you?" Phil says.

"No, not at all," Ben snaps. "But it's what we'll have to do, innit? We've both got to move on at some point."

" _Moving on_ ain't going on the booze, Ben." Phil is like—such a fucking hypocrite. Ben wants to smack him but he really, really can't be arsed with the drama right now. And his daughter's asleep in the next room. "You don't want Lexi growing up, seeing you like this, right? Not like you did, with me."

Suddenly, he's furious. Fuming. His veins are fucking hot. "I am nothing like you," he says, through gritted teeth. "I'm not normally like this."

Phil says, "I know." He puts his hand on Ben's shoulder, like a peace offering.

Ben freezes. Can't move, doesn't know what to do. His shoulder feels like lead.

Ben's not very good at being careful, but he's trying.

Sometimes.

-

The first time Callum slept here, in this room, it was kind of an accident. They were both drunk—innocently, not like now, not like an illness—and the house was closer than the flat and Ben curled around Callum like weeds, or something.

Callum kissed his forehead, and he was warm and Ben could hold onto him, really tight, and know that Callum wouldn't break.

Somehow it felt like more, when Ben woke up the morning after and Callum was still there.

-

Ben sees Callum in E20 the night he goes out with Dotty. He's alone, no new guy with him. The club's heaving because it's a Friday and they must go through a bottle of tequila between them.

Callum grabs his arm when Ben heads for the toilet. He holds on only for a second, but very, very tight. For a second it feels like they are somewhere else. Like: home, maybe.

"I'm so worried about you," Callum whispers.

"Don't be," Ben whispers back. "I'm not your problem anymore."

A bit harsh, maybe, but that's Ben all over, isn't it? 

-

They moved into the flat above the funeral parlour, eventually. Or rather, Ben started staying over so often that Callum gave him a key and said, _whenever you want._

It was so, so nice.

Ben kissed Callum a lot. Like, a lot a lot. It was good kissing. They were a fucking good thing.

He was actually going to try and make it happen. Stability and security and like, actual boyfriend things; kind of a hike, but _worth it_ , Ben had whispered into Callum's mouth, while his hand snuck up his shirt.

And then— well.

Turns out it really _was_ a hike.

And they had never really done it like this before but it turns out trying to change your entire being is a difficult start to any relationship.

And also: the Sharon situation.

So.

They didn't make it happen.

It's fine. It's not like they really _broke up_ anything. They had barely even started.

Life is full of non-starters. That's what Dotty told Ben, one time, when they were super drunk. You let them go, and you move on.

The point is, Ben still has Callum's watch. The one he left behind and has never asked for it back.

Like a promise, but, not quite. It's not flashy or expensive but it's nice. It's set five minutes fast because Callum's always been one of those who'd rather be early than late.

Ben's usually too drunk to remember stuff nowadays, but he's got a weird memory, for things to do with Callum.

-

The next day isn't exactly his proudest moment. He doesn't really remember any of it, to be honest, but it goes something like this:

Phil says, "You gonna—?" and Ben says, "Not really, no," frowning down into his Pot Noodle.

"You could get a takeaway or sommat," Phil says. "I'd say cook but you'd probably burn the place down."

Ben says, "I'm good."

There are, like, five different Phils in the doorway right now. The sound around him feels like he's in a goldfish bowl, all spacey and underwater. He probably couldn't stand up, never mind walk in a straight line. Blame Dotty. Yes, blame her. Anyone but himself, yeah.

Phil does that—that head shake, that _why are you my son_ shake and walks out, then turns back around. His shoulders are stiff, like goalposts. "You're an embarrassment, you know that?"

"Didn't ask." Ben feels himself bristle in response; the words come out in one long slur. He's tired and fucked and he just wants to eat his Pot Noodle and _wallow_. "And no, you can't have any."

"I've had enough of this." 

"Excuse me?"

"No," Phil says, and he's that awful red colour again, like his head's about to pop. His voice gets all croaky and angry. "I'm proper sick of this, Ben. And I know you're not a fucking idiot, as much as you act like one."

Ben says, "News to me."

"You're a selfish piece of shit who can't see a good thing," Phil says— _rants_. "And I don't just mean Callum, alright, I mean _this._ All of it. Me and you, finally getting on for once. Being on the same page with Jay and Lola and—oh yeah, your _daughter_ , if you remember you've got one. This family—" His voice gets quieter; the neighbours can definitely hear all this. "—this family just went through hell, alright, and instead of pulling yourself together and— and looking after your own, yeah, like a proper man, you do this. You become _this._ "

"Aw, this sounds familiar, doesn't it?" Ben says. He doesn't really know what he's doing. He kind of feels like he did when he watched Keanu bleed out on their floor: stunned, like there's no ground under his feet. Like he's floating. Like he could fly but it would a sick, drug-like flying where he's eventually going to crash. "Weren't I saying all this shit to you a few years ago? And a few years before that?"

Phil glares at him. He looks how Ben feels: chewed up, spat out. "I want you out of my house."

-

Ben likes hotels. He doesn't _love_ them, he's not weird, but between the Grindr hookups and business trips he's spent half his life in one or another. But he thinks they're fun: decent breakfast, fresh sheets. Bit of peace and quiet.

They're a blank canvas, you know? There's no imprint of Callum, or Paul or any other of Ben's bad decisions.

Lola calls him. _Ben?_

Ben sips his coffee. "Hey, Lo."

_Phil finally kicked you out?_

"He finally kicked me out."

Lola winces. _Well._ He kind of almost expects her to offer him his old room at Kathy's back, but she doesn't, and instead starts talking about Lexi's school play or something and it stings a bit, but nothing a stiff drink can't fix.

Ben's not mad at Phil. Honestly, it was only a matter of time. Ben would have done the same thing.

Scratch that: Ben's pretty fucking mad.

The thing is, Ben never got the chance to really be anything other than Phil's son. Not even in Portugal, the whole one-thousand-three-hundred miles away, because he's a Mitchell, and everybody knows that last name there.

And then Callum.

Callum was like a whirlwind. Ben wanted to be the sun for him, wanted to rearrange everything he had ever been for that stupid crooked smile.

But then his dad happened; Keanu happened and Sharon happened and Martin Fowler, of all people. And Ben couldn't put Callum through that. Couldn't lie to him every night about where he'd been, what he'd done. People aren't designed to love like that: Callum doesn't deserve to be loved like that. In bits and pieces, not complete.

But Ben does love him. So fucking much. It almost hurts.

(It _does_ hurt.

Why else do you think he drinks?)

-

Ben goes out alone, some nights. Most nights.

Dotty and Callum and Jay and all them, they try not to worry. Okay, well, maybe Callum doesn't _try,_ he just does.

"He's still not talking to me," Ben says, lying on the Fowlers' couch, feet just reaching the end. His head's on Dotty's lap, her hands in his hair. They're both kind of gone. "I just want him to talk to me."

"Sometimes they just don't," Dotty says. "I'm sorry."

"I hate this," he whines, then his whole body rolls and he throws up, all over the floor. "I'm so fucking sad, Dotty. I did it all for his good and I'm just _sad_."

"You could always try talking to him," she suggests, wrinkling her nose. "Like—there's nothing stopping you from making the first move."

Ben huffs, bitter. "His boyfriend, his new flat in Lambeth. The fact I told him I didn't love him. Yeah. Nothing at all."

"Come on," Dotty says, carefully sidestepping the puddle of vomit. It's started to seep into the carpet. God, that's gross. "Let's get you back home. Wherever that is."

-

He works hungover. It's not super obvious, but he's lost the ability to do basic maths and he keeps misplacing keys, and Jay looks ready to murder him at any given moment. He gets his shit together eventually after a few cups of coffee but then he catches his reflection in a car's wing mirror and _yikes_.

"I'm worried about you," Jay says. His jaw is a straight, firm line.

"Oh," Ben says, feet up on the desk. "We're talking now?" It's been three days. Which shouldn't feel like forever—Ben did go to prison, after all—but nowadays it really does.

"Wow, get fucked," Jay says. "I'm worried about you, you dick. You look terrible."

"I'm fine."

"You're not fine." He needs a drink. He needs a _drink._ "Christ, Ben, I know you don't give a shit about yourself but I thought you at least cared about this place. You've come in hungover almost every day for the past—what, the past week?"

"I'm _fine_ ," Ben snaps. "Jay. I'm working through it. No-one except you noticed. I'm fine."

"You think if you say it enough times it'll be true?" Losing Callum hurt enough. He can't lose Jay too. "That's not true for you, and it truly isn't fucking true for Lexi. You know, your _daughter_?"

"Jay—"

"Go fuck yourself," Jay snaps, and he's so _angry_. "When you end up just like your dad, yeah—liver falling to bits, turning yellow in a hospital somewhere—don't come running to me."

"I'm not gonna, so—"

"Everyone thinks you're bad fucking news, Ben." He's not moved, turned to stone in the swivel chair. "You know that? Literally everyone. Your mum, Lola, Ian, Bobby. Even _Callum_."

He pauses, to let that one sink in. Which is awesome, because of all the things to sink in, that one definitely is a sinker.

"I said, _no._ I said, he's just going through a rough patch, like he did when it was Paul's anniversary. I know you're convinced you have to play the hard man, Ben, to impress your dad, but I never thought you'd actually _end up_ like him."

"I'm nothing like my dad," Ben says, because he's fucking not. His dad's an arsehole. His dad looked him in the face once, stone-cold sober, and told him he wished he'd died. Ben would never do that, not to Lexi, not to anyone. 

He feels like he's been punched, or something. But he hasn't. It just hurts.

"Jesus Christ," Jay says, turning his face away. "Jesus fucking Christ, Ben. You actually did it. You actually became your dad."

-

Ben is not fine.

Ben is absolutely not fine.

Ben's not freaking out.

Ben is—

Ben is totally freaking out.

Ben has never been fine.

-

_"Callum, I need help—"_

-

"Ben?"

It's two a.m. and Ben is _so_ drunk. Ben is drunk in the middle of the square, on Arthur Fowler's bench and it's not a good look. It's probably his worst ever look, and he's had some shockers over the years.

Ben is _so fucking drunk_ and there is really only one person in the whole world who he wants to talk to.

"Hey," that person is saying. Everything is very blurry but if Ben focuses for a second he can make out the shape of his face, the familiarity. "You alive? You hanging in there?"

"I'm so gone, Callum," Ben says, slowly. Tries to stop the world spinning for a bit because he's in genuine danger of just puking right there, all over himself. "I don't— I don't even know what I drank, I just— it was strong, so—" He's slurring. His words are tripping over themselves.

Callum looks so far away but Ben can feel his breath on his face, hot and panicky. "Do you remember anything?"

"No," Ben says; his brain is a pile of mush. "I— no."

"This has been a very messy breakup, hasn't it," Callum drawls, fingers on Ben's neck, feeling his pulse. It must be slow. Ben can kind of feel it, somewhere in the hollows of his skull.

Ben laughs, startled, then hiccups. "I wish it was a breakup," he says. "A proper one. That would have been easier."

"Tell me about it," Callum says. He's got a phone in his hand, he's ringing someone.

"I ruined it," Ben— is he crying?

"It's gonna be okay," Callum says. "I promise."

It's not supposed to sting, Ben doesn't think, but it does: _promise_. Callum gives him a bottle of water and he swallows a mouthful, swills it around his mouth and between his teeth. He wants to be sober _right fucking now._

"Shit," Ben sighs, chest falling. "I'm sorry."

-

It turns out Callum called Jay. Ben's surprised he shows up. Well, he's not _surprised_ surprised—it's Jay, for God's sake—but it makes him feel better, somewhere low in his chest. Like maybe he didn't ruin everything in the entire world, even though, okay, he kind of did.

They get Ben into the back of a car from the car lot, stretched out along the back seat. Callum takes his coat off and drapes it over Ben, who grabs at him when he tries to let go and get into the passenger side.

"Callum," Ben says, pleading. He's so gone.

"You know," Callum says, sliding back in, "it's funny how we always end up in that park, innit." He gets his arms around Ben so he can rest his cheek against Callum's chest, and clutch at the thin fabric of Callum's shirt with slippery fingers.

Ben laughs. The city lights make him look gaunter than he ever has been, and his eyes wild and blown-out and empty. 

"Glad someone can laugh," Jay says, from the driver's seat; everybody looks pale and ill and terrified. "You're so much fucking work, Ben, honest to God."

"Are you saying I'm more hassle than— than—" He fades off, trying to come up with an example but his brain and his mouth aren't exactly coordinated right now and honestly, they aren't even words that he's producing, just sounds.

"Yeah, hundred percent," Jay says, trying for 'fond' and coming out with more 'desperate'. "It's okay, I'm way more work than five of you put together."

Callum says, "He's not wrong there."

"Ugh," Ben says, burrowing his face into Callum's shirt.

Callum rubs Ben's back, as carefully as he can manage. His hands are shaking, but it's not too bad. It's better now that Ben is here, even in this state; now he can hold Ben, and know.

"You should drive faster," Callum tells Jay. "You know, if you can."

"Yeah." Jay says. Callum can see his face in the rearview mirror: eyes flashing, shoulders a stressed-out line. "Yeah, I can do that."

-

They make it to the hospital. Jay breaks several speed limits by very high numbers. Ben has no idea what's going on but there are lots of white flashing lights and people in white coats and he's nearly passed out when he feels the sting of an IV being shoved into his arm. He doesn't know where Callum's gone, or Jay, but to be honest, he doesn't stay awake long enough to care.

When he does wake up, it's so he can be sick. It's mostly water, and he looks fucking miserable when he does it, but then the nurse tells him he has severe alcohol poisoning and he's lucky to be alive and—well, everything he's heard doctors tell his dad over the years. To be honest, he's still pretty drunk, but not bad drunk. He'd be giggly if his guts didn't hurt so much.

There's someone in the plastic chair beside the bed. For a second he thinks it's Callum, but whoever it is is too small, too hard-faced.

"I didn't ring your mum," Jay says. He doesn't sound disappointed anymore, which is nice. "I knew you'd take my head off, as much as she should know."

Ben blinks. Gauges his surroundings, which takes a second as he's _sure_ he was on a bench five minutes ago. "Thanks." Then: "I'm, er— I'm in trouble, then."

"Yeah," Jay nods. "Loads. Especially with Lola, mate, she's ready to take your head off."

The pillow is rough, uncomfy. Ben buries his head into it. Then he looks at his arm and sees the IV and god, he looks like he's been in a scrap with like, Godzilla and King Kong, one after the other. "Jesus," he mutters. "Look at me."

Jay makes a face. "You should have seen Callum's face when he saw you," he says. "Thought he were gonna pass out right there."

Ben swallows; it's almost pathetic, really, just how the mention of his name makes his stomach jolt. "I should really get over him," he says. His voice is still thready, thin, raw. "I mean, I keep thinking that he's not over it, but I'm nowhere near over it, and that's the problem."

"Right," Jay says.

"It wasn't about him," Ben says. "It was about me. I was scared. I just— I wasn't because I thought any less of _him_ , does he know that?" 

"You should ask _him_ that."

"I don't know," Ben sighs. "Maybe—I thought I did. Maybe I didn't. I just wanted him to talk to me; I didn't really think about what I'd say back."

Jay reaches forward, in his chair; he puts a hand to Ben's forehead, it's still clammy but way better than before. "Maybe," he says, and then, like he can't hold it back any longer: "Ben, don't you ever pull this shit on me again."

That makes him feel sick again. This is the most sober he's been in a long time and his head still isn't completely clear. Every muscle in his body tenses—how many times has Jay been through this with Phil, with his own dad, with Billy, with— "I'm sorry," he says, and he means it. "I'll try my best."

There must be something in his voice because Jay's face loosens, visibly. He must believe him. "I can work with that, I guess."

"And—you and Callum. He came. He came to get me, does that mean—?"

"It means he's not a prick," Jay says. "Jesus, what did you expect, he was just gonna send you a get well soon card?"

"I don't know anymore," Ben says. "I was a real arsehole to him, Jay."

"Yeah, he told me." The chair creaks as he leans back in it, crosses his arms. "No wonder he vanished for so long. I'd wanna avoid you as much as possible too."

"But he's still here now?" 

Jay looks back towards the door like he's expecting someone to walk in; a nurse, or some ill-timed bald-headed Mitchell. No one's told Phil, yet; it's not a call anyone particularly wants to make. "He's in the waiting room, trying to drum up the courage to talk to you. He'll be in when he's ready."

It wouldn't be dramatic to say if Ben wasn't so sedated, his heart would be soaring. "I wanna work things out with him," he says. "I wanna be better."

Jay nods and makes a tired, tight little face. "That's good to know."

Ben's phone buzzes. Just once.

_will visit 2morrow when lexi's at school. hope ur ok x_

He really does Lola, you know. She's one of those where she could do anything to him—rip his heart out, stomp on it—and he'd love her all the same.

-

Callum balls his coat up and makes a little nest on the floor beside Ben's bed. It smells like disinfectant and, faintly, vodka, but it's okay. The wifi in the hospital is pretty good, and so is the reception, so he can text Stuart and let him know what's happened, and that if he dares send any form of _i told u so_ then he's getting blocked. 

"I lied when I said I was okay," Ben says, behind him. He's half-awake, half-asleep, but there's no way in hell he's wasting this opportunity. They haven't talked in what feels like centuries. "I'm— I'm pretty much a disaster, Callum."

"I know," Callum says. He walks over; slowly, cautiously. Like he's approaching a sleeping bear. "I know. But listen, Ben. You need me and I'm here. I'm always gonna be here."

"In Walford."

"With you."

The air feels very cold. It is full of humming machines, an electric whine that grates the back of Ben's teeth.

"I think that's what I'm scared of," Ben says, very slowly. "What I was scared of."

"Oh." Callum sounds like he's about to say something else, but he doesn't.

"I don't want to let you go," Ben admits. His voice sounds so small. "I was trying but it didn't work."

"You don't have to," Callum says. "That's what I was going to tell you, Ben. You don't have— we don't have to be like this."

"I know," Ben says. "I just—I wasn't ready to hear it."

"You ready now?" Callum's voice is easy, careful. Not cautious. Callum's always been very good at managing the difference.

"Yeah." Ben looks at the door, hopes no one comes in, and looks back. "If you're ready to hear it back."

A soft exhale. "Of course." There's enough hesitation in his voice to let Ben know that he fucked up, that he was in doubt. That hurts. Then: "You know, when you said you didn't love me— it was awful, Ben. I thought I was gonna— I dunno, just die on the spot. I've never felt like that before. Not when Whitney left me, or when I was in the army, or when I heard that Chris had died. It was something else entirely. It sounds ridiculous now but, I just really felt like the world was gonna end."

Ben takes a second, like he's unraveling everything. "Yeah," he says, finally. "It felt like that to say it."

Callum blinks. His brow is all furrowed and pinched in the middle. "Okay." 

His stomach really hurts. He should find some paracetamol, or a shot of vodka or— God. It hasn't hit him yet: the severity of this situation, but he feels like it's going to at some point in the next twenty-four hours. He really doesn't want to be sober when it does. "Are you staying?" he asks, perhaps a bit too eagerly. "You've gotta catch me up on every embarrassing thing I must have said."

Callum's laugh is weak, but it's there. He doesn't realise just how much he's missed that sound.

"I think you need sleep more than anything," Callum says. "I'll, erm— I'll stay. If that's alright?"

"Yeah," Ben says, settling back into his pillow. His neck's gonna scream if he sleeps like this, no question, but it's cool. Callum's here, nothing else matters, not right now. Not in this moment. "Yeah, of course it is."

-


	2. Chapter 2

-

There is, once all that is done, a morning after.

Ben feels— very fucking ill, very headachy, very dry in the mouth. Sunlight streams across his face and he blinks. "Ow."

"Finally," someone says, out of view.

Callum is lying on the floor next to Ben's bed, wrapped in a thin blanket with his head on what looks like a balled-up jumper. His hair's all ungelled and in disarray.

Ben's in a hospital bed.

Ben is—

Ben made some pretty shit decisions last night, apparently. That would explain the sore head, the sore knees, the sore throat. The pillow under his neck that feels like sandpaper.

"Oh. Morning." He rolls over sideways and peers down at Callum, the long length of him in his clothes from the night before. "You didn't have to stay."

Callum sits up. He's got bags under his eyes and he looks awful, he looks so, so tired. "Yeah, I did."

Ben shrugs, but it means a lot. "Well, thanks. I'm glad."

  
He gets checked over by a nurse with very cold hands and Callum returns from the coffee machine to sit by his bedside. It's nice that he's here, Ben decides. It's like, reassuring.

If Callum is here then nothing too bad can happen to Ben. Bad things always direct themselves to him but Callum's kind of like a shield, absorbing it all so Ben doesn't have to feel it. It's why everything got worse when Ben sent him away.

For a while Ben thought that was the worst possible version of himself. Stood in the square, spitting venom at Callum's face. 

That was before.

  
"Heads up," Callum says.

"Oh, shit," Ben says. Sitting up is harder than it should be, but he manages it,

  
Kathy comes bursting through the door and hugs him very, very hard. Then she yells at him while she's hugging him; she's also crying, so it's kind of hard to really make out what she's saying. Ben gets the gist of it, which is: you're an idiot (obviously); you almost died (yeah, he was there); this is all Phil's fault (not untrue, but also not quite fair under these circumstances); we love you so much (aww); don't ever do it again (difficult).

"Love you too," he says, into her hair. "I'm really sorry. Thanks for coming."

She cries even harder and presses a kiss to his forehead, two, three times. She smells like mum. He's missed her so much. He didn't realise how much he's missed her.

  
Also, like, if Phil comes to kill him, Kathy will _definitely_ take care of that. Kathy's terrifying when she's mad.

  
-

  
This is what Ben was thinking:

Yeah, exactly.

  
Well, okay, he was also thinking:

_Callum_.

More specifically:

_Callum hates me,_

and

_Callum doesn't deserve all of this,_

and

_I'm still in love with Callum. Shit._

  
  


But that's not fair, because it's not like any of this is Callum's fault; it's Ben fault he got fucked up, and it's not like he even did it by accident, took something he didn't know or anything like that. He just started drinking and didn't stop, _wouldn't_ stop, until—well, this.

He was just thinking, _I miss you_ , and he about how he was going to have to go home to that house and step over the rug they put down to cover that stain on the carpet and how Callum would hate him still, and not speak to him again but this time from a very long way away, where he could forget about him and pretend all of this didn't happen. It was swallowing him up, like missing Sharon was swallowing up Phil; it had eaten Phil _alive_ , and Ben was thinking, _I don't want to end up like that_. So it seemed reasonable to like, not want to feel anything. At least for a little while.

Which is just some absolutely A-grade logic, right there.

  
The memories come back about an hour later, once he's finally got some food in his stomach.

This is what happened:

  
Ben got drunk again, but this time, like, really fucking drunk. The type of drunk where you kind of regress back to being a toddler: you can't walk properly and every idea is the best idea you've ever had.

Ben got drunk and Callum was right there so Ben kissed him into the nearest wall and it was probably the best kiss of Ben's entire life, and by probably he means definitely.

And then Callum kissed him back, just for a moment. Then he pulled away and frowned and Ben panicked, because you can't like, kiss the person whose heart you broke in the meanest and most unnecessary way possible, that's—you can't even say sorry, it means nothing coming from an addict—and so he just legged it like nothing had happened and—

Anyway, before he ended up nearly dying on Arthur Fowler's bench, he watched Callum and some bloke leave the bar like Ben hadn't literally just kissed him, like Ben hadn't said _I lied, you know, I do love you_ into Callum's mouth and then, okay, run like the wind but the point stands. Phil called him at some point but Ben didn't answer, and then he dropped his phone and it smashed and—

("Hang on, you just left him?" Jay frowns.

Ben rolls his eyes. His head is still banging. "Don't you start.")

  
-

  
But for a second there, before Lola arrived and Callum left to ring Stuart, when it was just the two of them in the hospital room, Callum turned to Ben said, very quietly, "Did you mean it?"

and Ben, because he had always understood Callum, said, "Yes. I always mean it."

And Callum smiled. Not his usual smile, all dimples and sunshine, but a smile nonetheless. "Okay, good."

And it was. It was good.

They didn't talk about it. They didn't do anything about it.

But it was good.  
  


  
-

  
"I can't believe how stupid you are," Lola snaps. She looks, now that Ben's stable and awake and no longer hammered, pretty pissed.

Jay says, "Lola," low and full of warning. He's pissed too, but less so, softened with understanding.

"It's okay," Ben says. "It's fair."

Jay sighs.

Ben drops his hand over the side of the bed so Jay can take it; he doesn't exactly think Lola is right about the long list of instructions she once told Ben about Jay—back when they were young, before it all went wrong—but #14 was: _he doesn't think he needs you but he does._ Jay squeezes Ben's hand, ever so slightly, and Ben squeezes back. One, two. Like Morse code.

Lola looks at them, chews on her lower lip, like she does when she's thinking. Probably about Lexi: about custody battles and _what do we tell her now._

Then she puts a hand over her face and says, "We're just as bad," and, "we should have been looking after you better. I mean, you're our mate, for God's sake, you're Lexi's _dad_ , I—" and Ben nearly jolts upright because hell fucking no. That's not fair.

"It ain't your fault, Lo," Ben frowns. "It's no one's fault but mine. I messed up." Messed up is a bit of an understatement but hey, baby steps.

Lola says, "Why?" Her voice shakes. Ben realises that she's trembling, all of her—her hand on Jay's shoulder, fingers digging into his shoulder. "Ben, why did you— after everything your dad has put you through, what made this seem like a good idea?"

"I didn't do it on purpose," Ben says, very fast. "The problem, I mean. The drinking was definitely on purpose. I didn't mean for it to become this big."

Jay makes a dumb little noise in the base of his throat like he gets it, or at least is trying to, and his arm wraps around Ben's shoulders and holds him and it kind of hits Ben in that moment, that if they'd treated Phil like this before, he might not have gotten as bad as he did. Maybe.

Ben looks over Jay's shoulder, at Lola. She raises her eyebrows at him but she's smiling, very small.

So Ben lets himself lean into Jay's chest and breathe in, deep; he twists his spare hand into the soft fabric of Jay's shirt, holds on. Jay stills smells like the car lot and vodka, but mostly like himself.

"Can't ever leave you alone," Jay mutters.

"Really not a good idea," Ben whispers back.

"I'm so flaming mad at you," Jay says. "So mad." But he doesn't let go, so Ben puts his face into Jay's shoulder and doesn't move.

  
-

  
Later, Jay explains:

He got a phone call from Callum at like, two in the morning; he didn't hear it at first, obviously, but then he kept calling and said, _it's Ben, something's happened—_

("You got scared?"

"I got so scared.")

—so they got Ben to hospital and Jay said, _we've got to sort him out,_ but it wasn't enough to shake the nagging feeling in the pit of his stomach that he should have followed Ben after he ran away, made sure he got home okay and sobered up and then maybe this wouldn't have happened, and he was shaking so, so hard that Jay had to calm him down in the hospital waiting room.

"I'm _so mad at him_ ," Callum had said, trembling, with Jay's hands on his shoulders.

"I know," Jay sighed. "You're not the only one."

They all understood why Callum and Ben weren't speaking, they all _got_ it, but Jay said, "you should see him, if you want to," and Callum realised that he did, because if he didn't his heart was gonna claw itself out of his chest and he would die.

  
("Bit dramatic. Thanks."

"It's nothing."

"I'm sorry."

"Me too.")

  
-

  
Phil doesn't hug him, of course—barely even looks at him—but Kathy does several times, and then they have to talk to the doctors even though Ben is eighty percent fine now, and the rest of it is just fluids and sleep. Kathy shoots Callum a considering look, then hugs him as well, and Ben smirks because he always knew Callum was her favourite.

"I'm gonna get coffee," Phil says, looking around. "Any of you want owt?"

Everybody looks miserable. 

"We're alright," Callum says. "Thanks."

Phil raises an eyebrow at him, and Callum looks coolly back, which, Ben used to think Callum wasn't capable of looking at a person like that—all silent, seething contempt. If he ever looked at Ben like that, he'd just die on the spot, and not in the good way.

"Okay," Phil says. He narrows his eyes. "I'm gonna take my phone, so, you know, call me. If you need sommat."

"Okay," Callum parrots.

Lola elbows him.

Phil rolls his eyes and shuts the door behind him.

  
"Bit rude," Ben says, pointedly, at Callum.

"You're in the hospital because of him," Callum argues, clipped and tight. "Excuse me."

Ben sighs. "Bit of a stretch to say it's his fault. He didn't pour owt down my neck, did he?"

They all exchange looks: _true_.

"It was my fault," Ben says.

"You're both morons," Jay says, in his usual _fuck the Mitchells_ voice which Ben has heard a lot in his life, enough to know he never really means it. Sometimes he forgets that Jay is just as tangled up in this family as he is, just as likely to end up like this. Phil has fucked over so many people.

But then he makes a soft noise and leans over, fixes where the hospital blanket has bunched up. "I'm glad you're not dead, though," he says, hovering half-over the bed.

Ben bites back all the sarcasm. Not the time, nor the place.

"Yeah," he says. "So am I."

  
-

  
Apparently this is what Ben said in the back seat of Callum's car, when he was incredibly wasted and he thought he maybe wouldn't wake up:

_Please tell Callum something that will make him smile. If Callum's smiling then nobody else can be sad. That's a law._

_I don't want Callum to be sad, alright? Not ever._

  
Not really logical, but, Ben was pretty gone.

  
-

  
"I know you don't need me," Ben says, quiet. "And I know this isn't the right time to tell you, but I'm— I'm happy for you. Moving on, and such."

Callum blinks. He looks at Ben like he's just spoken another language at him. "Ben—"

"Look, I care about you," Ben says. "And I want you in my life, yeah. I do. I shouldn't have said those things to you, saying I didn't—" Deep breath. "I didn't love you, and all that. It was cruel."

Callum says, "Right."

"I still mean it." He feels taut and exhausted, like a sponge wrung out too far. "What I said to you last night. Just so you know. I really do. I think I always will."

Callum bites his lip. "I didn't wanna believe you, to be honest." He looks at the wall, at some spot next to Ben's head. "That's why I was mad. I was just starting to believe what you said when you, y'know, dumped me."

Oh. 

"Only just?"

_Oh_.

"Please, Callum," Ben sighs, head falling back on the pillow. "You're _you_. How could have I meant a word of that?"

Callum makes a soft, startled little sound.

Ben gestures a bit with his head—come here—and when Callum does, Ben reaches out and grasps at the air and Callum's hand finds his, like muscle memory. Like Callum is a magnet and Ben is metal shavings, loose in the wind. "I almost died," he says. "And I thought about you. So—who needs who?"

A beat. Callum, shaking his head, very hard. "I thought," he begins, all in a rush, "when you told me, I - I thought, how could I fuck up so badly, y'know? How could I— completely misread a situation so badly."

"I'm such a knob," Ben grumbles.

Callum's mouth twitches at the corners. "Just a bit."

"And I'm glad you've— found someone else," he continues. It hurts to say. "Don't- don't think about me, yeah? I'm not worth it. Not worth the hassle."

Callum says, "You're worth everything, Ben," very quietly. His eyes are wide open, bright. He's always looked at Ben like that.

Ben doesn't think he realised that, until just now.

  
-

  
He drags the plastic chair up close to the bed and sits there, slowly carding his hand through Ben's hair like he needs to reassure Ben he's still here, that he's okay. Ben's pretty sure Callum hasn't slept like, at all, because it takes him no time before he falls asleep, chin resting on the edge of the mattress and his fingers against Ben's template, like if he stays touching him then nothing else bad can happen.

Callum's like that. He wants to know what's going on; he wants to be prepared for everything. He's always frantic, he cares so much about what people think of him. Of course it freaked him out that Ben was up to something and he didn't know. Of course he couldn't trust Ben enough to talk to him, after that.

It's Callum. He had said, _if you can't talk to me you can't lie to me_ , and Ben thought he was just being mean, but. Maybe he was being honest.

Callum's breath is soft against Ben's shoulder and his fingers curl slightly when he dreams.

Ben gets it. He doesn't want to let go, either.

  
"You alright?" Jay asks, leaning in the doorway with a cup of coffee.

"My dad's gonna kill me," Ben says.

"Probably," Jay agrees, wandering in. Doesn't blink an eye at the scene of Callum, dead to the world beside them. "Ready to go home, you reckon?"

Ben thinks about it. He looks over at Callum; Callum, who drove him here, who saved his life; Callum, who is still so, so angry with him, but is here anyway. "Yeah, I think so. Probably gonna have to talk a lot, when he gets over the fact I'm alive."

Jay huffs. "Ugh," he says. "Talking." But he's got that warm look he gets sometimes, when he's talking about Lola, or Lexi, or sometimes even Billy. 

Ben makes a face. "Shit, innit." He's thinking about it, though: eventually they'll have to talk about this. Their drinking, the similarities of their stories. Ben's always been close to his dad but never this close, so close he ends up on the other side of him.

"Are you, er," Jay begins, "gonna talk to anyone else?"

Ben looks down at Callum. He's snoring, ever so quietly. "Yeah, properly. Once I've got my head straight."

"I was thinking someone a bit more professional," Jay says.

That—scares him. Makes him think of circles of chairs and sobriety chips and some doctor sat there, scribbling away. Unspooling him like ribbon. That isn't who he is, he doesn't open up like that; he can't tell anybody how he got here without getting trapped in the past, like his past isn't the whole reason he's here. "Not yet," he says. He must look scared because Jay softens.

"That's a better answer than your dad used to give," he says. "He'd just say _no_."

-

Callum stays in the hospital all day. It feels like it means something.

They used to stay together all day every day, that's the thing, you know? Like, they were each other's halves in every which way of the phrase. They had each other's backs, each other's hearts. They were the dream.

But everything went to shit anyway. They were in the same town but they weren't speaking; they had the same friends, had been through all that together, but they weren't anything. Acquaintances. Bad memories.

Every time Ben tried to fix anything, it was still shit.

Then Ben almost died on a memorial bench in the middle of the square, and he figured out this isn't what he was supposed to be.

And now he and Callum are good.

Or, better.

Or, Callum smiles when he looks at Ben, instead of this like, weird twisted guilt grimace thing.

That helps, too.

  
-

  
The thing about almost dying was that, like, it was okay. Ben just kinda lay there and everything— I mean, everything was awful, obviously, he felt like shit and he was terrified and he kept throwing up, but— 

He had been so scared for months. Callum hadn't been talking to him, he'd broken Callum's heart and stepped on it; his sister was on the run somewhere with her baby, after murdering her fiancé. And he was sort of aware, dimly, at the back of his mind, that for some reason he was the only person who his dad wholly, completely trusted, which was like—well. What do you do about that?

  
Somehow, lying there on that bench with sick on his mouth and hands and clothes, he thought, _okay_. Thought, _I don't want to do this_. Thought, _I want to be okay._

And it hit him like—

well, okay, he threw up first, and

Callum made some really scared noises, and

Jay swore very loudly in the background of the call

—but then it was like, when you hit the worst of it, and you know it's bad, and you know you're gonna feel like absolute shit in the morning, but:

At least there's going to be a morning.

  
Ben had missed Callum so much he wanted to never feel again. But it turned out not feeling was fucking awful, and he really did actually like feeling things, even if those things fucking sucked.

And that it was: what's the worst thing that can happen?

This.

And you're okay. Or gonna be, eventually, which is close enough.

  
Ben's never been good at accepting the world the way it is. It was fucking dumb that he was gonna lie down and do it now, and that he had been doing it for months. It was not a Mitchell thing to do, and lying there, with his face sideways on the bench, Ben had, with great wasted person conviction, decided he was going to stop doing it.

  
He thinks he tried to tell Callum that, in the car, but he was pretty fucked up so it probably didn't come out right.

  
-

  
The nurse comes in and makes Jay jump, makes him spill his coffee all over his jeans and he has to run to the bathroom to try and get it off.

The commotion wakes Callum up and he yawns, owl-eyed, watching Jay go. "Huh," he moans.

"Shh," Ben says.

  
_think callums about to drop,_ he texts.

Stuart replies fast. _on my way._ Then, a bit later: _thanks._

  
Callum blinks. "What are you—"

"Just looking out," Ben says. "You know, it's what you do." He puts his phone back, slips across the bed so he's almost nose-to-nose with Callum, who's slouched over in his chair with his face still on the mattress. "Can you move over, Jesus, you take up so much space."

"I can leave," Callum says, running his hand through Ben's hair again. He is so gentle. Like Ben is something soft, delicate, breakable.

"Don't be stupid," Ben says. He presses a ginger kiss to Callum's forehead, relaxes when Callum doesn't recoil. "Now shut up, I need to sleep."

"Okay," Callum says. Slow, soothing circles. It's been months since they were last like this. "I won't go anywhere."

  
-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes i know nothing happened in this sksks the next chapter is more focused on ben+phil bc that dynamic murders me quite a bit

**Author's Note:**

> title from the sophokles quote, _i am the shape you made me. filth teaches filth._ come say hi on [tumblr](http://ashpanesars.tumblr.com)!


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